Friday, November 29, 2013

The Blackberry Refugee

I keep a writing journal. My best, worst, and in-between works of only paragraphs are stored there. I spend nights crying or giggling over them under the covers, and rainy lunches hidden in the library finishing sentences in my loopy cursive. If there is one thing that I seldom do, it's let people look at - even less, post on the internet - my paragraphs of writing.

This is one of them.

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By this time of year, the field had been overgrown by thornbushes, save for the paths between them, carved by whatever lurked in the vines; Most assumed rabbits. Kelsey walked there, uncut by the thorns. Many had thought her to be a witch - a spawn of some runt-serving god - to the point of Kelsey herself being unsure. She sat in a cone of blackberry brambles, tending to a brush-fire and doubting rabbits. The fog, thick with dust and influenza, receded where she walked.

RM

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